The Winchesters' Kitchen Sink
by ALetteredWoman
Summary: Supernatural drabbles and short one-shots that don't warrant an entirely new document. Could be funny, romantic, sad, dark, what-have-you. Dealer's choice - Click on the little black arrow next to the title to get the latest. Sorry folks, decided this one did warrant a new document; check out Deus Ex Machina.
1. The Epic Death Of Metatron

**A/N: Written in an especially bitchy mood, at the prompting of a buddy, who said I should take out my bitchiness on my least-liked character in Supernatural.**

Metatron loved the creativity that permeated humanity, God's most interesting creation. ( _Not_ , in his humble opinion, the most "perfect".). He loved the tales passed down from generation to generation through word of mouth, and delighted in the shifts and changes through the generations.

He loved everything, from the story of Gilgamesh; through Euripides, Homer, Beowulf, the Canterbury Tales, Shakespeare; to the incredible proliferation of story-telling that was spawned by technology. Cinema mesmerized him, from the early days of black and white movies through to such timeless classics as The Incredibles, with stops for Ghost, When Harry Met Sally, and Dirty Dancing. Well. Okay, those weren't "classics", but he loved them anyway.

He expected his own death to be as celebrated in story, song, and movie.

He wasn't sure that was going to happen, though. Not now.

The angels had found him. Every angel still alive had reason to hate him. The mob surrounded him, tattered wings drooping behind them, and hissed and murmured threats, eyes glowing electric blue.

They were waiting for something, though.

Then they parted, like the Red Sea parted for Charleston Heston, and he groaned.

"Asstiel. What the hell are you doing here? I'm hated, but you're public enemy number one in Heaven. Or at least, that's what I thought. And I see you've got Heckle and Jeckyll with you." He sneered at the trio. Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester. Dead multiple times, then resurrected. Why did God love _them_ so much? _He_ was the one who had taken down God's Word, sat with Him through innumerable sessions of drunken self-pity (Alcohol! Now, that was another amazing creation of humanity's!), been his confidante.

What did these three have that he didn't?

"Time's up, Metadouche," Dean sneered back. Sam just nodded, face stern. Like he was being Justice incarnate. Prissy, self-righteous prig.

Castiel simply drew his angel blade and plunged it in without a single word. No oration! No monologuing! Bad taste.

Metatron had just enough time to think, "Wait! This is so anti-climatic, so bana - "


	2. Fillings, Whoa Whoa Whoa

**A/N: Inspired by an autocorrect error in a fanfic summary.**

In which the boys reveal their secret fillings for each other.

Cas was, of course, Angel Food cake. Light, white, decorated with celestial blue fillips and swirls. One expected that, with him, what you saw is what you would get. Open, honest, awkward, nothing hidden.

Dean was chocolate - deep, delicious dark chocolate, commonly known as Devil's Food cake. There were mysteries hidden by his velvety brown covering, mysteries that anyone looking at him could see were there.

Cas, though angelic, was tempted by the those dark mysteries, but never let himself admit it, let alone say anything about it to Dean.

Dean, in turn, was sure there was more to Cas than met the eye.

But fillings were fillings. You didn't just go showing them to anyone. Everyone had fillings, that didn't mean you acted on them. So, case after case, year after year, Dean and his brother Sam (spice cake, if you please!) would hunt down wild bears' claws; evil bon-bons that sucked people's fillings out, smirking all the while; bundt cakes that yearned to have Hitler rise again. And Cas would always be there with them, supporting them, hiding them from the Great Baker in the Sky, fending off attacks from his fellow Angel Food cakes, rescuing them from witchy cream puffs or eclairs that wanted to bring out the darkness within.

Over the years, the temptation to open up, reveal his true fillings, would overwhelm Dean. But he would always hold it tight, refuse to let those fillings see daylight. Cas was his _friend_. His best friend. Revealing his fillings - well. He'd done it in the past, and had friendships ruined. Best to keep it to himself, eh?

But one day, after yet another hunt, yet another period that sent the sugar racing through his veins, when he and Sam and Cas returned to the Bundtker, it was too much. Sam had returned to his cake pan, wearied and beaten and sore, and Cas and Dean were alone in the common room.

"Cas. Buddy." Cas turned to him. He slumped in the middle of the room, deflated. He brushed at the chocolate dust covering him, the remnants of a truffle ghost, he sighed. "Damn. That was close. But you were there, to haul our asses out of the oven yet again." He looked up at his friend. "I don't thank you enough, y'know. You're always there for us - for me."

Cas waved a dismissive hand. "Dean. You don't have to say anything - "

"Cas. Dude. Let me say what I'm trying to say." He surged up, approached Cas, laid his hands on those damned tempting fluffy white shoulders. "I can't - can't - " He stopped, bit his lips hard, hard enough to bleed. Cas's eyes focused on the small bit of chocolate that oozed from those decadent lips, and his breath hitched.

"Dean..."

"Cas - I can't go on like this, day after day, beside you, Hunting, without - without - " Damn, he still couldn't say it. He looked into those vivid blue eyes, dragged in a deep breath, and without a word, split open, to reveal his fillings, shivering at the openness, an openness he hadn't had the courage to dive into, before this. He stood there, open, vulnerable, and closed his eyes, waiting for Cas to turn away in disgust.

But Cas just moaned softly, trailing a finger through the dark ruby raspberry purée that Dean had trustingly revealed to him. He brought the finger to his lips, sucked the purée off, and shuddered. Then, shyly, ducking his head he, too, split open. Where Dean was dark and deep and mysterious, laced with berry goodness, Cas was light and creamy, his filling a bright white contrast. Cas stood before him, deepest secrets revealed, and Dean reached forward, his heart beating, to delicately touch the cream filling that Cas displayed for him, and him alone.

"Cas, dammit. You're too good for me!" he groaned. Then he pulled the angel forward, his arms wrapping around him, head dipping against the airy, spongey shoulder, slipping down to drag a tongue through the cream. Cas's head tilted back as he pulled Dean even closer. He was sure they'd be leaving a sticky, sugary mess behind, but he didn't care. They had resisted each other for far too long...

Sam stumbled into the common room, running a hand through his long cream cheese head decorations, mumbling, "Dean...thought I heard something..." His eyes focused on his brother and the angel, tangled together in the middle of the common room. He stopped dead, then rolled his eyes. "Jeez. Get a room, you two!"

Dean gulped, lifted his head, looked at his brother, blushing. "What - Um. Y'don't mind? You're not surprised?"

Sam rolled his eyes again, and started for the kitchen. "Mind? Anyone with eyes could see the fillings you two had for each other long ago. Always leaking around the edges, you guys." He stuck his head back in, shook a finger at Dean. "Just make sure you clean up the damned mess before you take my advice, would ya?!"

Dean looked down at the streaks of raspberry and cream spreading across the floor at their feet, blushed again, and groaned. Cas just laughed, placed a hand on his shoulder, and pushed him toward the hallway to his room. "I'll take care of it," he murmured against Dean's neck, tasting the fillings again. He snapped his fingers as they walked down the hall, hands interlaced.


	3. Born Again

**A/N: One of my favorite scenes. I love the music.**

The entrance to the facility is swarming with those...demons. The three of them have to get inside. They tell him he's an angel, that he can smite demons. It's insane. He stands looking down at the demons, fear and uncertainty running through him.

The man - Dean - moves up to his side, says, "It's in there. It's just like...riding a bike."

Not helpful. He turns to Dean, says, blankly, "I don't know how to do that, either." He's dimly aware, as he turns to look down at the horrible, evil things he is supposed to know how to kill, that the man is rolling his eyes. It feels...oddly familiar. "All right." He takes a deep, steadying breath. "I'll try."

He takes another deep breath, starts walking down the hill, looking from one demon to the next as he gets closer. They make him twitch, shiver. On the surface they look ordinary, but there is a vile, oily black smoke cloaking them, ripples of red webbing gleaming and sparking in splashes, glittering randomly.

He approaches the nearest one, who looks at him dumbfounded. "Hey. I know you." He steps forward. He's supposed to know what to do, but he doesn't, and the fear grows.

"You're dead!"

He takes another step. "Yes, I've heard." He reaches out, wraps his fist in the man's uniform jacket, draws him close. A beat, and his other hand reaches out to splay across the man's forehead. It's foreign, yet familiar, like breathing. He does...something...and the man's eyes, mouth, nostrils flash red-orange, a sputtering noise accompanying the light.

And he sees...

 _An abandoned barn. Lightning flashes, a wind howls around him. Doors open before him. Two men face him, fear written large upon their souls. The shadow of wings. His wings._

He turns to see two more of the demons coming close, and his hands grasp their foreheads in tandem. He smites them.

...he sees...

 _A luxurious room, all cream and gilt. Classic paintings on the walls. A man - Dean - younger, less careworn - stares at him in shock as he finishes painting the sigil on the wall with his vessel's blood. He hands Dean a bloody knife - the demon knife - and trusting hands take it, trusting eyes look into his._

Another step forward, another demon, another smiting.

...he sees...

 _He reaches out to Sam's forehead, touching it oh-so-gently, but what he's doing is not gentle, not at all. Sam's wall, the wall protecting his mind from memories of his time in the Cage with Lucifer - he rips it away. This will provide a distraction, keep them from interfering._

His foot steps forward again. A fifth demon. He smites again.

...he sees...

 _He takes a jar of blood from Crowley's hands, a tiny, satisfied smile flickering across his lips. The key to Purgatory, and his victory against Raphael. He ignores the blood's makeup, brushes aside the memory of the Purgatory creature they had to gut to get her blood, the virgin they had to sacrifice. All that matters is stopping Raphael from re-starting the Apocalypse._

The last of the demons breaks, runs. He transports himself to stand in front of it. "I don't think that's going to help," he says gently, reaching one last time. He idly wonders why the demon didn't smoke out, even as his hand rests on its forehead.

...he sees...

 _Dean, standing before him, face twisting, divided between lingering trust and broken, betrayed anger. He says, faintly, swaying, "I'm sorry, Dean," and releases the avalanche of souls from Purgatory. He aims them at the gate, watches as the swirling blue-white mass is sucked through, away, leaving him cold, empty. Horrified. Guilty. His plan, his pride, his single-mindedness - all led him, them, to this one point in time, where he tries to atone for his guilt. But he can already feel, clinging within him with claws holding them back from that torrent of souls, Leviathan. Released. Through his actions._

And he is done; no more demons remain. Dean and Meg walk up to him in the dim light outside the facility. Dean's face is torn between faded anger and awe, relief, hope. Recognition.

"Cas...?"

Meg moves up beside Dean, dark hair swirling. She chuckles, low and intimate. "That was _beautiful_ , Clarence!" Her voice ripples and dances with amusement.

He stares at Dean blindly, heart - soul - flinching from that look.

"I...I remember..." He pauses for a burning, painful moment, eyes locking onto Dean's. "Everything."

A crushing wave of guilt and self-hatred slams into him.


	4. Feeding Time!

**A/N: Shameless pandering. I'm working on a crossover between Supernatural and Galavant ("A Nasty Nest"). Since it's a crossover, it doesn't show in the main SPN list. Anyway, this is a snippet from the story that may never make it in, but gives a wee taste.**

The huge tan head (the size of a car) opened its mouth. The mouth was bright red and full of teeth. Many, many, very sharp teeth. King Richard started grabbing burgers from the silver platter Sid was holding ready for him, tossing them one by one into the gigantic mouth, crooning happy pet names.

Dean gulped again.

"A dragon," he said to Sam. "Son of a bitch. An honest-to-God, living, breathing dragon. Like from fairy tales. Not like _our_ dragons." Sam nodded, staring wide-eyed at the enormous creature.

"Sammy. This just keeps getting weirder and weirder. A fucking dragon!"

Sam said thoughtfully, "I wonder why he keeps it around? Isn't it...kind of...impractical to have a pet dragon? I'd think it would be kind of hard on the livestock..."

Dean chewed on it. "Yeah, well, didn't Sid say they were running out of sheep? But..." he mused, "Having a dragon around might - _might_! - be useful for wars...or as a kinda watchdog."

Sam nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Damn. A dragon! I wonder what other creatures they have wandering around? Like...Uh..." He waved his hand wordlessly. "Unicorns?"

"As long as they're not murderous, psychopathic unicorns," Sam muttered darkly, remembering their one encounter with the creatures.

They watched the king toss more burgers into Tad Cooper's mouth.

Finally, Dean sighed. "At least they've stopped the damned singing!"

Sam snickered. "For now."


	5. Gin & Tonics At The Edge Of The Universe

They lounged on Adirondack chairs by the seashore beneath the blazing nebulae spreading across the sky. A small table laden with hors d'oeuvres and drinks sat between them. The only sound was made by waves lapping at the shore with a gentle whisper and the scutter of sand being moved by the breeze.

She sighed, took a sip of her gin and tonic, leaned her head against the chair back, and said, "Darling. We need to talk about the kids."

He grunted, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin. He really didn't want to have this talk; he wanted to laze here in the sunshine and think of nothing in particular.

She turned her head to him and snapped, "Oh, there you go again, just grunting! Say something!"

"What do you want me to say?" he grumbled. "They're kids. They've only been around for an eon or two. Give them time, hon. They'll come around."

"No. I won't. We raised them better than this! This - this petty little feud of theirs! 'Moooom! Amara's being meeean!' 'Moooom! Charles locked me out of his Creation!' This and that and the other thing. It goes on and on, and they never seem to get along! And all the little sentiences get smashed along the way! It's just frustrating!"

He sighed, sat up, and looked around. The blue sea was so vivid it seemed to suck one in, until there was nothing but blue in the universe. The sea merged seamlessly with the sky at the horizon. Glowing rings split the sky, and the banner of nebulae flung itself from horizon to horizon in an astonishing display.

"C'mon, hon. Look at all this stuff Chuck made! He did a damned fine job. Nice work. Don't you think _you'd_ be just a tiny bit upset if Chuck kicked us out, wouldn't let _us_ play around in here? It's mighty pretty..."

She pouted. "Oh, of course I'd be upset! But...well...when Ammie's upset, she tends to...break things, you know that." She sighed and looked at the sea and rings and stars with a mournful eye. "What did we do wrong? She wants to take all this beauty and...and...oh, _eat_ it, I guess! Like she did the _last_ time Chuck made something! She can't go throughout eternity being jealous of his creativity. She needs to get out there and start making things of her own! Not following him around like a toddler, knocking down his towers of blocks."

He mumbled something noncommittal, staring out at the endless ocean.

She folded her lips, exasperated. "You're going to do it again, aren't you? Just ignore the whole thing, let Ammie get her way. Just like always. Your little baby girl, who can do no wrong. I swear, she has you wrapped around her little finger! Are you just going to sit there and let Ammie smash it all to bits?!"

He pursed his lips. "From what I can see, Chuck's got it under control. Give it a rest, love! Let him do his thing."

She snorted. "Right. Those little pet sentiences of his? The two humans, and that angel? Like _they're_ going to solve the problem!"

He took a drink. "I dunno. You need to have more faith. Besides, Chuck gets huffy when we butt into his problems. So let's just sit back, relax, enjoy the show - ". He waved his drink at the display around them. "It'll work out. And they won't learn to get along if we keep stepping in the middle of their little spats."

She glared into her drink. "Humph. Always so laid back." She shook a finger at him. "Don't you come crying to me if our favorite spot to relax goes _poof_ one of these days because of Amara's tantrum!"

He put his drink down on the table and held out a hand to her. "I promise I'll say, 'You were right' if that happens. Now. We're here to relax. So. What say we do some relaxing, eh?" He smiled at her, a special smile that only she ever saw. She gave him a look, then relented and clasped his hand in hers. They sat in a comfortable silence, soaking in the serenity of their favorite spot in Chuck's little universe.

Still. After a while she couldn't resist murmuring, "Maybe we should take Amara to a therapist?"


	6. Expendable

Expendable. That's what Ambriel had said. They were expendable. They were only there to provide support for the real heroes.

Heroes like Sam, returning to face Lucifer, solely on the basis of what he thought were visions from God.

Heroes like Dean, careful not to show how much returning to Hell, which had broken him, affected him. Because he had to save his brother.

But him? Expendable.

If he vanished from the face of the Earth, no-one would miss him. Not really.

What had he done lately that was heroic? Nothing. He had "killed" Crowley while under Rowena's attack-dog spell...and failed. He had beaten information out of that lying, scheming, pitiful slug Metatron, and almost killed him, due to the remnants of that same spell. He had huddled, paralyzed by fear, in the Bunker, for weeks. Oh, he had played the part of loyal researcher, digging up answers for Dean and Sam while they were out in the real world, fighting monsters, facing The Darkness. But it had all been because he was afraid.

And here they were. Sam in the temporary cage, with Lucifer. He hadn't said yes. That was heroic. Dean standing beside him, looking into the cell at evil incarnate and his brother. Buying time so the spell to return Lucifer's essence to The Cage could be completed. Crowley, forcing his mother to do...well, not the "right" thing, but what had to be done. Rowena, providing the spell.

And him.

What was he here for?

No, really. What was he doing here?

Supporting Dean. He did that always, willingly. The Righteous Man. Amazing, constant, steady Dean - who fought so many demons, both real and of his own making. Fighting for innocents. Fighting for his brother. Because that's what he did, that's what he was, no matter how much it flayed his heart open.

His brother snapped his fingers, and he and Dean were in the cell. Things happened in a whirl. Dean ran to Sam, leaving him facing Lucifer. He pulled his angel blade, knowing it was useless, that a mere angel blade would do no good against the archangel. Still, he had to try.

Lucifer hissed, "I can beat The Darkness. Me. Only me." He raised the blade to stab at him, but Lucifer grabbed his hand, twisted the blade away.

 _"Weak. You're filled with fear and self-loathing," Amara says, smiling with pity._

And now Lucifer was punching him. Over and over again. Pain filled him, but worse was the feeling of weakness, uselessness. He barely bothered to fight. Then Sam and Dean were there, pounding on Lucifer, drawing him off. The fight moved away from him; Lucifer using his angel strength to beat Sam, Dean. He struggled to his feet and fell on Lucifer from behind, only to be thrown off.

Suddenly Lucifer had Dean by the throat, lifting him up off the ground, a hand cocked back, a smirk on his face. He said, "All right, Sam. I'm gonna make this real easy for you. Say the magic word, or Dean dies...and we both know you're not gonna let that happen."

He got to his feet one more time.

Expendable.

 _We just need time. Time for that spell to work. Or maybe..._

He attacked Lucifer, distracting him enough so Dean slid to the ground. Lucifer turned to him, an angry snarl crossing his face, and lifted his fist, smashing it into him. No holding back this time; he was angry, and he punched him repeatedly, mechanically. He staggered back from the blows, crumpled into a heap on the floor. His brother lifted him up with a savage, amused smile, one hand clutching the lapels of his trenchcoat, and said in a light voice, "Any last words?"

Last words.

Expendable.

 _"I can beat The Darkness."_

He drew a ragged breath, looked into his brother's eyes. "Can you _really_ beat her?" he gasped out. Lucifer's eyes lit with triumph.

"I can." Conviction soared in his voice.

He closed his eyes, sagged. He could at least do this one thing.

"Then, yes."

Everything went dark.


	7. Bathtub

**Written for a prompt on /r/fanfiction: death without dialogue. Coda to 10.21.**

She had _known_ the Stynes were after her.

Still, for some reason, she had scurried away from the warehouse, away from Cas's watchful eyes, away from Rowena's subtle digs. Searching for peace and quiet, a place to hack the codex, somewhere where she could immerse herself in her beloved computers.

She could have just gone to a coffee shop, filled with people. That had been her favorite type of haven, a place filled with the quiet background chatter of friends together, the clink of cups, the burble of frothing machines filling various dairy or non-dairy liquids with steam, the sound of cars going through the drive-through, the aroma of coffee beans freshly ground. For some reason, that atmosphere energized her, allowed her to concentrate.

It was her equivalent of his beloved dingy diners with their unassuming-looking homemade pies that burst into glorious flavors as soon as you took a bite.

Instead, she had come here, alone.

She had _known_ the Stynes were after her.

He knew that she could feel the growing strength of the Mark of Cain in him. The way he craved killing these days. It was no longer just part of the job; it was an end in itself, that hunger. The rage. The way, when he had fought Bad Charlie, the rage had risen in him to the point where he had kept whaling on her, beating his fists into her after she was downed, over and over and over again. It simmered through his veins, just barely controllable, keeping him on edge, ever-ready to snap. She felt it.

He had seen the worried love in her eyes when she thought he wasn't looking. Hell, he had felt her fear for him like a fucking anchor weighing him down.

Grounding him.

Keeping him human.

Charlie and Sam and Cas, doing everything they could, reining him in, subtly discouraging him from going out on jobs, trying to find ways to siphon off the endless, bubbling bloodthirst.

Sam...he was practically born to the life. Dad had groomed him for murder, revenge; this life was all he knew.

Cas? A warrior angel, who had spent eons fighting at God's - or the archangels' - command.

He would mourn them, deeply, miserably, feel like his world had a gaping hole that could never be filled, if they died (and _stayed_ dead). But he would never feel like they had been scammed, cheated of their lives, because...well, this _was_ their lives.

Charlie, though...

She had _known_ the Stynes were after her, dammit!

She'd laugh at his protectiveness, argue with him, claim she was a full-grown woman who came into the Hunting life with her eyes wide open. But underneath it all, she was an innocent, a wide-eyed, wondering innocent yearning for magic and quests and the good fight against evil. And they had dragged her into the world beneath the world, the shadowy, fear-filled, adrenaline-pumping world of the supernatural.

She'd have said she walked into it, knew what she was getting into.

She didn't.

She'd had no idea.

In the end, she had run off to another of the cheap, shady, crappy motels that were his and Sam's life. Hidden away from them all while she pounded away at breaking the code. Alone. Unprotected.

For him.

She did it for him.

The Stynes had found her here. Killed her.

He growled, his hands balled into fists at his side, and he deliberately let the bloodthirst rise, the anger, the need for violence. He'd fought it for so very long, shoved it down, angry at himself when it slipped loose. Like the night he'd slaughtered Randy and his "buddies" after they tried to use Claire as a bargaining chip between themselves. Or when he beat Bad Charlie to a pulp, even knowing that when they put Charlie back together again, every single bruise, break, drop of blood felt by Bad Charlie would be felt by her.

He'd felt ashamed when he let it rise up, before.

Not anymore.

Not now.

He stood in the doorway of the sleazy, dirty bathroom and let the scene soak in. Dark red curls, dark red blood, both shining in the dim light streaming in the window. Charlie, the little sister they'd never had, pale with death, crumpled in the bathtub. Legs slung over the rim. Arms flung every which way. Head slumped over. Blood. Blood everywhere. Her tablet, smashed on the edge of the sink. Her knife, _their_ blood on it - she had fought them, yes!

But in the end, here she was, her bright light, her joy and intelligence and enthusiasm, extinguished, gone, put out, cut out by those scum-sucking SOBs.

Because she had gone looking for that damned book. To fix _him_.

Because she had stolen that damned book from them. To find a spell to remove the Mark of Cain. For _him_.

Because she had loved him.

His fault.

His own fucking fault.

He felt the Mark throbbing on his arm, pulsing through his blood, singing its unending thirst for blood, for violence, for killing.

This time, he didn't push it down.

This time, he didn't hate it, despise it, want it gone, hate that he had taken it on.

No. This time, he hugged it closer, crooned wordlessly to it, reassured it that, yes, there would be blood. He encouraged it, begged for it to grow, to send that thirst, that need, soaring through him, making his skin twitch, setting his teeth on edge. Making his world narrow down into a single, laser-like desire for blood.

Oh, he would feed it, this time.

Every. Single. Styne.

He would hunt them, gladly. He would find them, wherever they were. He would kill them, gladly, one after the other, like the slime that they were. He would revel in every single damned broken bone, gasp of pain, dying flicker of light in their eyes. He would give the Mark what it wanted, gladly. Oh, yes.

Because they had done this to her. A sordid, meaningless death in a smelly, sordid, down-at-the-heels motel. To Charlie. His little sister. Who he loved beyond thought. Who had loved him to her death.

For Charlie.


	8. Lady Of Many Names

**SPNWritingChallenge April entry - prompt: "Just pick a damn name, okay?"**

The hall was vast, stretching out into the distance in all directions. There didn't seem to be an end, or a beginning; it was as if it were the whole world.

Which, of course, didn't make any sense. For one thing, the world was round, not flat. For another...well. The world had mountains and oceans and deserts and cities and forests and rivers and...okay, it had lots of shit, none of which was here. What _was_ here reminded Dean of a better lit version of Osiris's court. Intricately carved Egyptian pillars held up the roof at regular intervals, hazy, warm, sourceless light flooded the place, statues of men with animal heads, cat statues (and cats, dammit, he was gonna start sneezing Real Soon Now!) dotted the floor, and he was all alone.

"Hello?" Echoes bounced down the hall, getting softer and softer.

"Anyone here?" More echoes. A black cat that had been grooming its stomach stopped and peered up at him, golden eyes glowing and one hind leg sticking up In the air, forgotten. It looked ridiculous.

 _Goddamit, then, some kind of idiot dream. Time to wake up._

Of course, when you're dreaming and try to wake up, it doesn't work. Dean tried squeezing his eyes shut, then re-opening them, and nothing happened. He tried jumping up and down, feeling silly while he did it. He tried whapping himself on the head. Every time, the hall remained unchanged, except that he was gathering an audience of cats. Black cats, orange tabbies, Siamese, spotted gray-and-brown, short hair, long hair, and a few particularly ugly hairless cats - they sauntered up, and settled in, eyes of various shades blinking at him. They sat, tails neatly coiled around their front paws. They sprawled on their sides, front and hind legs stretched out. They folded themselves into neat loaves, front paws tucked under.

He folded his arms, pursed his lips, and frowned at them. "All right, _someone's_ gotta be here!" Some of the closer ones took that as an invitation, and padded back and forth around his legs, purring, tails curling against him.

This was going nowhere.

"Hey! _You_! Whoever-you-are! Get your ass out here and tell me what the hell I'm doing in this place!" he shouted into the emptiness.

In the distance, he saw a person approaching. As the form got closer, he saw it was a woman in a clinging white dress. She came nearer, and he amended his mental description to include "hot". Not in the normal sense, but, damn, she was gorgeous. She had sleek black shoulder-length hair, dusky skin, a lean face, slender nose, dark eyes with lots of dark eyeliner, thin but sensuous terra-cotta lips. A golden circlet rested on her forehead; it was decorated with a golden disk resting on golden horns. She looked familiar, and he dug into his memory...ah! She looked a helluva lot like that famous bust of Nefertiti.

He narrowed his eyes at her as she drew near. She might be beautiful, but he needed his sleep, and didn't like having it hijacked by some sort of vision. Because that's what this was, a vision, if he'd ever had one, and it infuriated him. He began tapping a foot impatiently as she slowly walked closer. She stopped before him, and the cats abruptly abandoned him, some weaving around her legs instead, others blinking at her.

"You - !" He started a rant, but she held up a graceful, narrow hand to stop him.

"I am the Lady of Light and Flames, the Lady of War and Rule, Many Eyed, Many Named." Her voice was low, throaty, warm, and sent tingles chasing up and down his spine. "Known as Io Sothis, Hekate, Isis, Maia, Astarte, Leta, Hestia, Palantra, Sarkounis, Tachnepsis, All-Bounteous, Giver of Victories - "

"Lady, that's a mouthful," he interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Just pick a damn name, okay?"

Her hand dropped, and her darkened eyebrows twitched down in a slight frown. After an offended moment, she dipped her head in a nod. "You, mortal, may address me as Isis - "

"Fine, dandy, we're getting somewhere here. Okay, Isis lots-of-titles, gimme a clue as to why I'm here." He waved a hand around at the hall, the pillars, the statues, the cats.

She sniffed. "You have no sense of decorum. I am due your respect. I am _the_ Isis, _the_ goddess, _the_ mother of all - "

He snorted. "Heard _that_ one before, and she was just another monster. No offense, but my brother and I've been swimming in gods, goddesses, demigods, angels, demons, and everything under the sun for years; you're nothing new. Killed most of 'em. So what's up?"

She stiffened as he spoke. Where she had been warm before, she now seemed chilly and distant. "Very well," she snapped. "I had forgotten how Westerners ignore the pleasantries. So rude." He glared. She glared back. "I am need of assistance. There is a group of people in Nebraska - " She stumbled over the word. " - who claim to follow me, but mouth only words." She paused expectantly. He squinted in confusion. She waited.

"Um. Okay...? So why's this _my_ problem, lady?"

" _Rizil_!" she hissed. "Rude _and_ slow. Only words...means they do not truly believe that _I_ will take action. Therefore, _they_ have taken action. They have made deals with the demon Set, to borrow his power to punish their enemies. This makes them, to my understanding...your prey." She bared her teeth in a thin-lipped smile. "As a Hunter."

"Remind me not to get on your bad side. So why don't you...um...smite 'em? Why _me_?"

She stiffened again, lifted her chin, looked down her nose at him. "I cannot fight Set. It is not _maat_ , it is against the natural order. But Set, being chaos, sneers at the natural order and is more than willing to corrupt my followers. In addition..." She sighed, relaxed, and suddenly seemed more natural. "Well. Not only do you descend from Cain, which is important only to Yahweh and his followers...you are a descendant of my son, Horus."

He stared at her. She looked back, her face rueful, hands laced together at her waist.

"So...what you're saying is that you're my - my - great-great-grandma, a million times removed?" He boggled at the idea. Wasn't it enough that God and his archangels were all over him and Sam? Now add another godly relationship. Ugh. "I mean - well, look at you! You don't look like _anyone's_ great-great!" The compliment pleased her; she preened and ducked her head. He snorted. "Not that it means anything, you could just be - be - fuzzing my brain or something. Anyway, what's that gotta do with it? No offense, but I don't do favors for long-lost family, _especially_ not family that only bothers to talk when they want something."

She heaved an exasperated sigh. "Descendant of my _son, Horus_." She stopped, as if that was supposed to mean something to him. He shrugged, perplexed. She threw her hands up. "Really! You modern clods don't know _anything_ , do you?! My son, Horus, the only one who can fight Set. Therefore, you."

He frowned. "Hunh. Okay. That means Sammy can do it, too. Why didn't you give _him_ this vision? He's into visions." She glared at him. "Okay, okay! Me. But Sam's gonna be involved one way or another, y'know. We do it together, or we screw the world up, that's what happens." Her chewed on his lips, rubbed his hand across his chin, then shrugged again. "Okay. Fine. We'll do it. Only because we're stuck in the middle of a whole bunch of shit that we can't figure out, and it gives us something to do! But..." He pointed with a stiff finger. "One-time deal, lady. Don't think you can be dragging me into this place whenever you need a favor done!"

She dipped her head solemnly. "Very well. One time. I will not disturb you again." She leaned down, scooped a cat up to cuddle against her bosom, then turned her back and started walking away. The cats parted before her like a fluffy wave, drifting to one side or the other, then followed her. He stared after her, then a thought struck him.

"Hey! Hey, Isis! Aren't you going to tell me where to find these demon lovers?"

She turned, and smiled. "I already have." She swept away, leaving him standing, befuddled. As she grew more distant, the hall around her faded, disintegrating into a mosaic, then blowing away in transparent tatters.

Dean woke up with a start, sat straight up, and scanned his surroundings. Thank God: his room in the Bunker.

"God-damned pushy goddesses!" he snarled. He dragged on clothes and stormed off to Sam's room, palming the door open and striding up to his bed.

"Yo! Sammy! Rise and shine! We've got a job!"

No matter how much Sam pushed and prodded, Dean refused to say where he had gotten the information on the coven of old Goddess worshippers who had taken to magically flaying their enemies alive. Every time he asked, Dean would growl, clench his hands into fists, stare angrily into the distance, and sneeze. Repeatedly. Once, he thought he saw a cloud of cat hair drifting in the sunshine pouring in through Baby's windows, but since, when he looked later, there wasn't a hair to be found, he shrugged it off.


End file.
